Concrete Angel
by dracochick
Summary: Hermione isn't as happy as everyone assumes. Song fic. NEW CHAPT! Whiskey Lullaby.He watched from the shadows, but she bever looked back. Warning: angst.
1. Concrete Angel

This will probably be one-shot… a warning, though, that this will be a sad story…

sniff hope you like it…

Disclaimer I do not own Harry Potter… or the song "Concrete Angel"… but I can dream, can't I?

…….

_She walks to school with a lunch she packed._

_Nobody knows what she's holding back._

_Wearing the same dress she wore yesterday._

_She hides the bruises with linen and lace._

"Bye, Mom. I love you." Hermione's hair fell down her back in a chocolate waterfall. She smiled at her mother, but the warmth of it didn't quite reach her eyes, "I'll miss you."

Her mother glanced at her and then to her father, who stood with his arms folded, impassive, " Goodbye Hermione, I love you too."

Hermione looked at her father, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod of his head. She lowered her eyes quickly and kissed her mother on the cheek ," Take care of yourself." She whispered.

She walked to the Hogwarts Express and got on it without looking back.

…….

"Hermione. Hermione!" She turned to see a red haired boy grinning widely from within a carriage.

" Hey, Ron. How're you?"

"Great! Hey, what's that on your arm?"

She glanced down to see a purple bruise that spread from her wrist to her elbow and hurriedly covered it with her sleeve, " Nothing. I'm just clumsy, that's all."

…..

_The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask._

_Its hard to see the pain behind the mask._

_Bearing the burden of a secret storm,_

_Sometimes she wishes she was never born._

" I suppose that after a summer of freedom, you have all returned ready to learn." The crisp, domineering voice of Professor Snape cut into her thoughts, " I'll have expect you all to have read the book 'Ensnaring of the Mind" by tomorrow." He ignored the groaning that resounded throughout the classroom.

"Hey, 'Mione, bet you already have it read, haven't you?" Harry asked her.

She gave him a mall smile, " No, actually. I haven't had time all summer. "

"Hermione? Behind on her schoolwork? Do you have a fever?" Teasing, Harry put his hand to her forehead to check her temperature.

Hermione looked at him, her eyes filling with tears, " Some things are more important than homework."

…..

" _Something's wrong." _Professor Snape thought to himself as he absentmindedly placed ingredients on a table for his next potions class, _" Granger is always the first to have everything done. She's also the first to be a friend to anyone. But today, she turned away from a hug. Almost as if it pained her. I would ask her, but its not my place. Besides… she's only a mudblood, after all."_ Thus thought, he positioned himself behind his desk an put the thought of Hermione Granger from his mind.

_Through the wind and the rain _

_She stands hard as a stone._

_In a world that she can't rise above._

_But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place_

_Where she's loved._

_Concrete angel._

" Are you going home for Christmas?" Ron asked Hermione.

"Yes. I… have to. I mean, my mother has probably missed me." She stammered, blushing.

"Jeez, Hermione. Try not to sound so enthused." Ron joked.

"I'll try." She said softly, studying the cover of the textbook she was carrying.

……

As the train rolled to a stop, she forced herself to look out the window. Her parents weren't there.

She walked slowly off the train and studied the crowd. A woman walked towards her, her hair a dirty brown and her face a collage of colors.

Her eyes widened, " Mother! What happened?"

Her mother looked down, " It was my fault. He had a hard day… I shouldn't have bothered him. It's… my fault." Her voice trailed off.

" I'm here now mom. He won't touch you." She vowed.

_A voice cries in the middle of the night_

_The neighbors hear but they turn out the light._

_A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate._

_When morning comes it will be too late._

As soon as she walked in the door, she knew something was wrong. Several empty bottles lay on the floor, a trail to the living room.

" Is she home?" A slurred voice shouted.

" Just… go upstairs, honey. I'll handle it." Her mother gave her a pleading look, and gave her a slight push in the direction of the stairs.

" No. This ends now." With her head held high, she walked into the room and faced her father.

" You think you better'n me, don't you? Think you can waltz right in here and have you room, have food and clothes. But what do you do? Go to same fancy school where a crackpot teaches you to wave a wand and practice voodoo?" His face was red with the exertion of speaking; and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.

" No, father. I don't think I am better. I don't practice 'voodoo', either. Its witchcraft." She put her hand on her hips and glowered at him, "What did you do to my mother?" She pointed at her mother, who cowered under her fathers glare.

He stood up, righting himself on the arm of the chair, " Don't you dare argue with me, you little bitch."

He lurched toward her, his arms outstretched, " I'll teach you."

She whimpered and whirled to run, but the toe of her shoe caught the edge of the carpet and she flew into a wall.

He smiled and raised his fist, the last thing she ever saw.

…….

Her body lay lifeless, surrounded by a pool of blood. Her hair surrounded her face, and upon her lips was a sort of smile, a serenity not seen in life.

" What did you do?" Her mother whispered, horrified.

Her father stared his wife for a moment, looked back at his daughters' body and his face turned to stone. He walked past his wife, roughly brushing her shoulder.

The last thing the neighbors heard before the screaming was a gunshot.

_A statue stands in a shaded place._

_An angel girl with an upturned face._

_Her name is written on a polished rock._

_A broken heart that the world forgot._

Over her tomb was an angel, erected there by her mother. Every day she brought flowers to her daughters gave and stood there, quietly weeping.

Passerby's have sworn to hear her say "Forgive me" to the quiet grave, whose only response was the wind.

_Here lies Hermione Granger, a dearly loved daughter. She will be missed._


	2. Whiskey Lullaby

_She put him out _

Like the burning end of a midnight cigarette… 

He watched her from the shadows, watched as she flicked her curly brown hair over her shoulder with a small smile. Watched as she went out with Victor Krum. Wished his was the hand stroking her soft cheek. H knew it was wrong, even improper. Purebloods were not meant o mix with muggles. Even extraordinarily pretty ones. But surely one dance wouldn't hurt. Would it?

He took a deep breath and strode purposefully in her direction, but his way was blocked by easily, who intervened.

"What do you want, Mafoy?"

" Move, weasel." He snarled, unhappy to see that Hermione was turning around with a small frown on her face.

" What do you want, Draco?" she sighed, as though expecting a fight. To be as near as to feel that sweet breath on his face! But no, he could not. It wasn't right.

"Nothing." He stated, simply enough. How that puzzled look as her brows pulled together made him want to smile.

How his thought tortured hi as he walked away! How her sweet, murmuring voice haunted his dreams, nay, his every waking moment! Her innocence, her trust was precious to him. But it was not his to take. Nor could it ever be. His was of the different sort, the kind that was to stay away from all those that were not dwellers of the shadow. How he cursed the brand upon his forearm. For without, she could have been his.

_She broke his heart_

_He spent his whole life trying to forget_

Her face swam before his eyes and he found himself following her around in hopes of hearing her winkling laugh, or see a glimpse of her laughing eyes. Somehow, as though they knew and couldn't bear the reverence he had for her, Harry and Ron always managed to ridicule and laugh until he was forced o turn away, forced to abandon the hope he still harbored. That one day, somehow, she would be his.

_We watched him drink his pain away_

_A little at a time but he never could get _

_drunk enough to get her off his mind _

_Until the night…_

He couldn't stop thinking about her until one day, he found her alone outside the dungeons. Diamonds sparkled in her eyes and down her nose where they stopped, trembling until they fell to the floor ad dotted the cold granite.

"What's the matter, Granger?"

How she looked, misery leaking from every pore as her face turned from serene to a spiteful glare, " Why do you care?"

He had no answer and stood, dumb, until she brushed past him.

"Wait!"

She turned, stopped with her face still set in its angry pose. He stepped swiftly, and, before she could object, placed his lips against hers in a stolen moment.

Her hand was across his face in an instant, leaving an acute red mark on the creamy whiteness of his skin. Her violence astounded even herself, for her eyes widened a bit before she turned ad ran up the stairs.

_He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger_

_And finally drank away her memory_

_Life is short, _

_But this time it was bigger_

He lay in bed, watching the canopy above him. Her face would not go away it stayed there, accusing and distant. How her face haunted him! Followed him around and never gave him a moment of peace.

_Than the strength he had to get up off his knees_

_We found him with his face down in the pillow._

_With a note that said "I'll love her till I die"_

_When we buried him beneath the willow,_

_The angels sang a whisky lullaby…_

For five years he lived without her. Five years of silently watching her happy life with Weasley. Years he wished she had spent with him. Mourning what could have been, detesting who he was and wishing it could be different.

He had no release until one day. He realized what he had to do to rid himself of her memory. He closed his eyes.

…

The neighbors heard the screaming when the maid found the body. Beside it was a note, _" I'll love her until I die…" _

_The rumors flew,_

_But no body knew how much she blamed herself._

She was with her husband when she heard the news. It was a pity, they said. A real pity. But their eyes were accusing. Their voices stabbed her like knives. She knew why he had done it. She knew whose face haunted him.

She looked over the sink into the mirror and cursed that which was reflected.

_For years and years, she _

_Tried to hid the whisky on her breath_

Alcohol helped fuzz the edges, helped her forget. But she never truly let go of his memory, never allowed herself to forget who she truly was. A monster.

Truthfully, it was not her fault. But then, tit was. Why else was he dead? Because he loved Ginny? No. For she knew he had loved her, yet she tossed away any hope he had.

And that night in the dungeon… when they had kissed. She made out like she was so upset. But…she wanted it. She wanted to devour that moment with hungry lips. But she hadn't. Why? She didn't know.

_She finally dank her pain away,_

_A little at a time but she never_

_Could get drunk enough to get him off her mind_

_Until the night…_

Her eyes were blurred and she was sure someone was talking too her. But listening was too much effort. Maybe this time she would wake up and her life would just be a dream…

She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a photo. It was _Him_. The one she was trying o forget. The one she didn't, but also did kill. The one whose accusing eyes watched her from every shadow, waited around every corner.

With one hand she clutched his photograph… with the other she pulled the trigger.

_She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger._

_And finally drank away his memory._

_Life is short, but this time it was bigger _

_Than the strength she had to get off _

_We found her with her face down in the pillow, clinging to his picture for dear life._

Her husband found her, a crimson river flowing around her like a demented halo.

_We laid her next to him beneath the willow,_

_While the angels sang a whisky lullaby._

She was buried next to the one she both hated and loved, beneath a weeping willow tree. There was no plaque, no monument to state who was there. There was just the gentle whispering of the wind as it flitted throughout the grass.


End file.
